


AC 196: Year One

by lifeaftermeteor



Series: Life After Meteor [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Series Pre-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 23:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5763832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeaftermeteor/pseuds/lifeaftermeteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the Eve War - and the birth of both the Earth Sphere United Nations and the Preventers organization - the pilots and those around them adjust to peaceful living to varying degrees of success.  Meanwhile, rumblings of rebellion draw disillusioned soldiers to L3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is part 2 of the [Life After Meteor](http://archiveofourown.org/series/391015) series, which trails the Gundam Pilots (and others) through the years post-war. Welcome comments/feedback.

**Schbeiker Scrap and Salvage**   
**L2-V10328**   
**196 January 6**

Hilde’s uncle had never supported her entering the military academy. Being her parents’ only child, orphaned when she was a toddler, she was exempt from the academy’s service requirements. He without a child of his own, her caretaker was likewise exempt from sending her. But more to the point, he thought she was too young, too high-strung, and most importantly, too wild for the controlled, structured life of a cadet. He let her go nonetheless, recognizing the need for change embroiled in youthful rebellion, convinced that after a year or two, she’d be back.

He was right, as it turns out, but not for the reasons he expected. When she was dishonorably discharged for helping a fellow colonist – a well-acted mental break and a few favors called in by her former commanding officer the only things that kept her out of the prison block and far enough away from the firing squad – she had to deal with her uncle’s near-incessant “I told you so” that followed.

She dealt with it though, as she had dealt with the ground-bounder cadets taking cheap shots at her origins, as she had dealt with being the girl who wanted to play the boys’ games. Her uncle was her only family after all, and he had welcomed her back with open arms…even if it came with a harsh reprimand. He let her stay in the spare room and gave her a job at his scrap yard.

And then _he_ had shown up.

Duo had appeared on their doorstep a few months later looking to lay low for a while, and had hoped to call in a favor to a friend. He exuded confidence and calm, but there was a fear which sparkled behind his “L2 blue” eyes that caught her off-guard. The rational part of her knew she shouldn’t let him anywhere near her uncle, much less let him into their home; but the look in his eyes left her off-balance, like the floor had fallen away, and she found herself pulling the door open wider and stepping aside to let him in. She had heard herself introducing him to her uncle as a friend from the academy who had fallen on some tough times after a medical discharge and needed some help. Her uncle – damn, trusting fool he was – had only asked the young man’s rate. Duo had promised to work in exchange for a roof over his head, and Hilde had suspected it had more to do with the cameras being installed downtown than anything else.

That night, long after the colony’s sky projectors had switched over to the surrounding star field, she had padded barefoot down the hall to Duo’s makeshift bedroom. She hadn’t bothered to knock, knowing he heard her coming, and fully anticipated the gun aimed at her from the far corner. Unphased, she closed the door quietly behind her, and crossed her arms over her diminutive chest. “Well?” she prompted.

“Christ, Hil…” Duo had sighed, ruffling his bangs with his free hand before stashing the gun once again out of sight. “You do realize I could’a shot you dead.”

“You’re not _that_ trigger-happy. You wanna know who’s coming at you before you waste the ammo. I at least know you that well,” she had scoffed, crossing the room to sit unbidden at the foot of his bed. “Well?” she prodded again.

“‘Well’ what?”

“Are you going to tell me how you found me? And why you’re _really_ here?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he had intoned, glancing at the window and avoiding the questions.

“No, _you_ shouldn’t be here,” Hilde corrected. “You’re the one on the ‘wanted’ signs, not me.”

He turned his eyes on her for a long moment. Analyzing, calculating. _Reassessing_ , she determined when he appeared to deflate in front of her. “I can leave,” he said softly, turning his eyes to the blanket. His long fingers picked at the stitching, a nervous twitch if she ever saw one.

Hilde shook her head and huffed, “Dumbass. Just because you _shouldn’t_ be here doesn’t mean you _can’t_ be here.” She paused before concluding, “It doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ you here.”

He glanced up at her then through his long bangs. A smile pulled at his lips, but it lacked the humor she’d come to associate with him during the daylight hours. “Uh oh, you’ve fed it, and brought it inside…it’s never gonna leave now.”

“The day it has to will come too soon.” They sat in silence for some time, not really looking at each other, not really willing to think beyond the shared moment. “We have to talk,” she had finally said. “I want to know what happened.”

He rubbed his hands over his face and groaned. “Later. Please? Not tonight.” Quieter, he added, “It’s too raw tonight.”

She had nodded and stood to head toward the door…but then stopped suddenly, returned to the bed, and threw her arms around his neck. He had jumped in the embrace and she was certain every conditioned response had told him to flee, but as she held on, she felt him relax against her until a hand came up to pat her back. “I am glad you’re here, Duo,” she whispered against his cheek. “For however long you can be. I’m glad you’re here, and that you’re okay.”

The days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and still he stayed. Occasionally, Duo would disappear for a few days without notice, thankfully returning in one piece. They would talk at night when they were alone and during the day, he rarely left her side.

But then that damned Gundam showed up, in their scrap yard of all fucking places. She had been scared for him then, hearing the pilot call his name while they stared down – or up, as the case may have been – the barrel of the suit’s buster rifle. And then he was gone again.

Gone until _Libra_. He’d called her an idiot over the intercom, but she had known what she’d been doing, what she’d been risking. She had known what she had in her possession, and she had known that of all people who needed an edge in the fight, it was them.

He had called her an idiot when she woke in some medical wing, too. No longer aboard the massive _Barge_ , she couldn’t even remember being evacuated as the crew abandoned ship. She had surfaced from unconsciousness to bright lights and white walls and he sat at her bedside, his arms crossed over his chest, a scowl darkening his features. “Good morning sweetheart,” she said had with what she hoped was a grin, her head still clouded with what she hoped were just painkillers and sedatives. “How’s the weather lookin’ today?”

“Idiot,” he growled back, still scowling.

She had smiled and conceded. “Maybe, but you’re still here.” He hadn’t responded, turning his head away and clenching the muscles in his jaw. “Is it over?” she dared to ask.

He sighed deeply then and closed his eyes for a long moment. “Yes,” he answered a last, finally returning that dark gaze to hers. “Yes, it’s over.”

They shared the silence then, their thoughts their own for a time. _Over_. It had been hard to fathom at the time. “Slept through the whole damn thing,” she muttered. “What are you going to do?” she asked then.

His eyes shifted from hers as his face fell. Dropping his gaze to the floor, he scuffed the toe of his black boot on the tile. “I…don’t know,” he answered finally. “I…don’t really have anywhere…to go home to…”

“Yeah you do,” she told him. He made to argue, but she shook her head. “Don’t argue with me Duo Maxwell. I’m tired and injured, and kinda hazy. Just come with me.”

And so he had. But this time, he hadn’t come alone. Duo brought another stray back with him: a morose boy named Heero Yuy who harbored a look that gave her goose bumps even now. Duo had reassured her (and her uncle) that the conditions of his last appearance would suffice, and that Heero had valuable experience that would be put to good use in the scrap yard.

And so began her life after the Eve War.

Duo and Heero took the spare room in the back which Duo had left abandoned so suddenly the previous year, bunking together dormitory style (watching the two of them drag a second mattress down the narrow hall and shove it through the even narrower doorway had met her humor quota for the week). Neither had brought much beyond the clothes on their backs and a couple duffels when they arrived, and they seemed satisfied with the basic necessities – work in exchange for food and a place to sleep – which wasn’t good enough, in her humble opinion. When you’re housing the savior of the human race under your roof, the least you can provide is some bedroom furniture.

And so while the boys worked pulling apart battle-damaged suits and the wreckage of war for repatriation into some project that would benefit mankind, she went shopping. That evening, they found her straightening a dresser that stood half a meter over her head. “Oh hey!” she said, grin wide on her face. “I hope you don’t mind – my uncle owns the property and all – but I figured you would need somewhere to stash your things, and I got a little carried away.” She waved a hand at the furniture. “I found everything secondhand, so it’s not exactly pleasant to look at, but I figured it would be a start.”

“You paid for all of this?” Duo asked, sounding worried as he crossed the threshold and walked around the room. He fidgeted for a bit before finding a seat on top of the desk that stood against the wall.

“Maybe,” she said, sounding sly. “Maybe not. I like to keep you guessing so that you can’t pay me back.”

“But—”

“No arguing, Duo. You all needed furniture – I won’t have the two of you living like squatters when I have a walk-in closet lined with clothes.”

Heero walked past the two of them and, with some hesitance, ran his fingers along the edge of a bedside table. For a time, Hilde watched Duo watch him, but then turned to allow her gaze to follow his line of sight. Somewhere in the other young man’s subconscious, he must have registered that he was being watched. Straightening his shoulders, he withdrew his fingers from the table’s surface and turned to tell Hilde, “I promise not to damage it. That way you can get a decent price when you resell it.”

Her gaze softened at this. Quietly, gently, she explained, “I got it for you, Heero. For you and Duo. You guys can do whatever you want with it.” Turning to Duo, she found him pensive, his gaze inward. She sighed and shrugged, trying to diffuse the sudden tension. “I would just ask that you guys don’t…you know, turn it all into kindling or something.”

“We won’t.”

The prompt response made her smile and shake her head. “Alright, alright. _Unpack_ ,” she urged. “I’m gonna go see what’s for dinner.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Kaohsiung, Federation of Chinese Nations [1]  
196 February 15**

The firecrackers had been giving him a headache. They’d been going on all blocks for the better part of the day…well, week really. The first New Year [2] since the end of the conflict, and everyone was celebrating as if it would be the last.

He remembered there was a time that he enjoyed the sound. As a child, his grandfather would let him light the fuse and he’d run away laughing as they exploded behind him, bright red paper flying in the air with the smoke and sparks. 

Now it sounded too much like gunfire. 

Fleeing the clamor, he ducked into a basement teahouse. The sound was muted, but now it sounded like distant mortars. He wasn’t sure if that was any better.

Taking a deep breath, he took a table at the far end of the room, his back pressed against the wall. He then ordered from the old woman who owned the place, and pulled a tattered book and a notepad from his bag. If he couldn’t escape the noise, maybe some old French philosophers would at least get him into a better headspace.

It worked…to an extent. His classical French was rusty, but the words burst from the page into his head all the same, and the flow of them was enough to lull his anxiety. As good as any meditation he’d tried in months. 

He’d spent January hopping between colonies but had found that nothing felt…right, or real. As if all of it was a dream that would dissipate as soon as he opened his eyes, and his waking mind knew it. When the travel bans were lifted, he fled the false familiarity of colonial living to Earth, hoping to find something he understood in the Federation. But his accent pegged him as colonial as soon as he opened his mouth, and he suddenly found more doors closed to him than not.

Truth be told, the sympathy was worse – and he got that in spades from colonial sympathizers. He knew how to respond to discrimination or even the occasional hate-based attack. Sympathy he didn’t understand. Sympathy was unacceptable.

Sympathy was what the people who had done nothing – and still did nothing – offered as a down payment for their apathy and social negligence. Children were still starving on L2. The mafia still ruled in L3. And an entire colony was dead because they’d been backed into a corner. Sympathy changed nothing.

And neither did this new wave of pacifists seeking to abandon the past and everything the hordes of soldiers reminded them of. They’d flocked to the youthful face of one Relena Darlian – a Peacecraft no longer – like moths to a flame. She was the bright light at the end of the tunnel, the ever-elusive ‘they’ would have you believe, and promised milk and honey in exchange for abandoned guns and soldiers. But she was too young and too naïve to understand the secondary ramifications of her policies. In the ESUN-wide push for Peace and disarmament, they had run over the people who’d help get them there.

Across the room came the sound of confident footsteps descending the old wooden stairs. The old woman approached but was apparently waved off. In the corner of his eye, he watched her hastily flee the scene. _Damn._

“They said you’d be here.” Looking up, Wufei found himself in the presence of a tall man. Smartly dressed, he extended a hand – which sported an expensive watch – to the seated youth. 

“‘They’?” Wufei prompted.

The man smiled. “Well, more of a ‘he’ really – I stopped by your place, but the guardsman said you’d gone out. He said you frequented this place since it was one of the few that didn’t have a lot of people.”

Wufei filed away the knowledge that his movements had become common knowledge – he would have to make some changes. “You stopped by my building?”

The man shrugged, noncommittal, and lowered his outstretched hand when it became clear the youth had little interest in pleasantries. Pulling a chair over from one of the other tables, he sat down. Wufei checked his exits. “No need to feel threatened,” the man chuckled. “I’m here on behalf of an important man. And an even more important little girl.”

“Not interested.”

“Hear me out. I’ve traveled a long way and I don’t want my trouble to go to waste. You’re a very difficult man to find, Zhang Wufei.”

“Obviously not hard enough, if you were able to find my address.”

“Well in that case I’d wager you were hoping to be found, though to what purpose I wouldn’t know.”

Wufei sighed and closed his book with a snap. “What do you want? You know nothing about me, and I’m not remotely interested in learning anything about you. I’d very much like it if you left. And quickly.”

“I actually know quite a bit about you – I’ve had time to study up while I followed your trail. Zhang Wufei, only son and surviving heir of the Dragon clan of L5-A0206, you were…off-colony at the time of the detonation. Interesting that you were married briefly some years ago. Not something that usually pops up, but I would wager it had something to do with you going off the grid for some years after her death. An expert in hand-to-hand and close combat, a trained pilot…you’ve been difficult to track. Where have you been, Master Zhang? Judging by your current state,” he said eyeing Wufei’s jeans and ink-stained fingertips, and the bag by his sneakered feet, “I’d say you’d been moving – perhaps running – from the peace that has so enamored everyone else around us. Running from what, Master Zhang? The flashbacks? The lingering smell of the battlefield in your dreams? Or perhaps roads not taken…”

Wufei schooled his features. “Not bad. But two can play at this game,” he countered, giving the man a once-over, “and I don’t even have a file on you. Well-dressed means well-connected in these times, so you’re not the average sleuth. You smile too easily and keep eye contact too long, which means you lie for a living. You want people to trust you so that you can get what you want from them. I bet you even tip thirty percent, regardless of the service. Always say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’…probably end sentences in ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir,’ don’t you? ‘He seemed nice,’ they’ll say when you leave, avoiding all suspicion. But your accent is wrong for L1, even more so for L2; you’re too short to be from Europe proper; and I’ve never seen eyes like that on a ground-bounder. ”

“Impressive,” the man acknowledged with a grin. “But how do you know I’m not from L4?”

“Because the Winners don’t let slime muck around in their backyard.” Wufei felt a stirring of pride when the man’s immaculate smile faltered. “I’d be careful if I were you, sir.”

“I came here on behalf of my employer to offer you an option. A direction, if you will…lest you continue to run.” Now it was the other man’s turn to smirk. “Tell me Zhang – has this peace been kind to you? Or would you consider it a bitter pill? A heartless bitch, even? Tell me…how has this peace changed the world? The truth is that nothing has changed,” the man said with a derisive sneer. “The Peacecraft girl’s naiveté has led to disarmament, yes; but it’s also cast out the soldiers who bled and died for this peace. We’ve been labeled untouchables. We don’t belong in this world anymore. But why? Why is it we’re welcomed as heroes, then condemned as villains?”

Wufei swallowed back the sudden rise of bile. It was odd, hearing his own thoughts echoed to him by a man he didn’t know. “We’re obsolete,” he said instead.

“We don’t have to be. Peace without us is not peace, and you know that all too well.”

“Peace is peace regardless of who is included or not. You don’t like it, take it to the ESUN. Or go join the Preventers.”

“Those overblown police officers? Please. As if they have any kind of real power. As if they can change anything. Humans will be the destructive force they were always meant to be, and there’s no changing nature. There will always be suffering and war and death. It’s a matter of who ends up on top in the end.”

“Isn’t this the end?” Wufei asked him. “I’m pretty sure that’s what they said when they elected a new president.”

“And when exactly are they going to make reparations to the orphaned L5 survivors?”

“As if we’d accept their contributions.”

“Don’t let your pride get in the way, Zhang. This false peace is nothing. It will unravel. And we’ll be there to pull the world back together. Just you wait and see.”

A moment of silence passed between them. The man seemed to collect himself, his features sliding easily back into a carefree smile. Standing, he straightened his suit under Wufei’s watchful gaze and said, “We’re going to change the world. We want you to be a part of it.” He then withdrew a business card and placed it on the table with finesse, saying only, “In case you change your mind,” as he turned and walked out of the teahouse into the noise of the street above.

Wufei watched him go, and finally released the breath he’d been holding. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his nerves and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, cradling his head between his hands, black hair spilling over his fingertips like ribbons of ink. Straightening, he reached for the card. The man’s contact information didn’t interest him, so he flipped the card over to reveal one word emblazoned like a brand on the back:

**BARTON**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Far from making any political statement here (I am well aware of sensitivities and ramifications), it’s hard to believe that sovereignty issues would not be resolved in 200+ years.
> 
> [2] Assuming 2100 CE = AC 001, then the Chinese New Year would fall on AC 196 February 15 (2295 CE).


	3. Chapter 3

**Schbeiker Scrap and Salvage, L2-V10328  
196 April 21**

The itch had been growing. 

Steadily, with a persistent vengeance of sorts. Heero had tried to tamp it down through work in the yard, feeling the strain in his shoulders and the reliable satisfaction of pulling things apart, putting things together. He tried to defuse it with companionship, gradually releasing the chokehold he’d maintained on this alien feeling of trust. He wrapped himself in the friendship of others, their patience with his eccentricities, and their earnest affection.

And yet the clock ticked down. Time to leave, time to run, time to vacate the premises. Your location is known. You are compromised. Your mission is in jeopardy.

Now he found himself in the spare room at the Schbeiker scrap yard that had become home, packing the duffel he had arrived with in preparation to leave, an irate and confused Duo Maxwell trying to convince him to do anything but.

“I have to go.”

“But _why_?” Duo asked him for the third time. Pushing away from the doorframe, he crossed the space between them and dropped onto the bed Heero had been using for the past few months. It bounced under his weight. 

“Just because.”

“Well I don’t want you to.”

This gave Heero pause. A half-folded shirt still in hand, he turned to stare at the young man who stared right back up at him from his bed.

Now that he had his attention, Duo continued, “I don’t _want_ you to leave. I want you to stay _here_.” He worried the corner of his lower lip with his teeth for a second before he said, “You may be a real jerk sometimes, but you can be a really nice guy when you want to be. And I want you here.” He shrugged, as if to dampen the magnitude of his words. “You’re my friend.”

Heero watched him, silent, unsure about how to respond to the admission. Duo began to fidget under his scrutiny before finally running a hand through his hair and hopping to his feet. “But whatever,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his voice turning bitter. Walking briskly toward the door, he added, “It’s your decision.”

And then he was gone, leaving Heero with his almost-packed bags and troubled thoughts. Dropping the shirt unceremoniously into the duffel with a frustrated grunt, he turned and sat on the cot that Duo had so recently vacated and rested his elbows on his knees. Heero leaned forward, taking his head into his hands, and sighed. Something in his chest ached. A horrible feeling, it made his mouth taste sour and made lungs seize, as if the breath they held was ice cold. The tick-tick-tick of the clock in his head continued its mantra, “Leave, leave, leave,” but his limbs no longer held the strength to do so.

It was thus that Hilde found him. “Hey,” she muttered from where she stood at the doorway, and he looked up. “Thought I might find you here, assuming you were still here at all. Duo stormed off down the street – I figured there was only one person that could rile him up like that on short notice. And here you are.” Her eyes bounced from the half-packed duffel bag to him. “What’s going on?”

“I have to leave,” came the ready response.

Hilde let the words drift between them for a bit, flutter to the floor, and die. Then she asked, “Can I come in?” He nodded, but it was the only acknowledgement he gave her. Crossing the threshold, she strode to the cot and picked up the duffel. She set it aside and sat down next to him, crossing her legs. After a moment of shared silence, she stated simply, “You don’t have to, you know. You _can_ stay here – it’s alright.”

“No, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she reiterated, interrupting him. “You _both_ can. The war’s over. You don’t have to run anymore,” she said, her tone softening as she spoke. “Unless of course you don’t like it here – then I guess no amount of convincing is going to keep you around.”

“No, it’s not that,” Heero told her, the fight leaving him as he exhaled sharply. He looked away and his forearms twitched. He needed something to hold onto, something that was tangible, solid. He gritted his teeth and pushed down the desire. He didn’t need it. He didn’t… “I…I _want_ to stay,” Heero acknowledged, “But I can’t…”

“Do you know why?” she asked him then. “Do you know _why_ you can’t stay?” 

He opened his mouth to respond but found no words. The clock in his head paused, and he felt part of himself start to shake itself apart as the gears tried to reengage. _No. No, I won’t leave._

Unacceptable. Defiance would be corrected.

_No. I don’t have to go. I won’t go._

“Oh Heero,” Hilde hushed. Reaching out, she cupped his cheek in her palm, her thumb rubbing the ridge of his cheekbone and smearing the tears he hadn’t realized had fallen along his skin. With a groan, he closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. “You’re safe here,” she whispered. “You’re safe with me, and you’re safe with Duo.” After a beat, she added, “And between the two of you, you have enough weaponry stowed away in this room alone to lead a small rebellion.” He couldn’t fight the bark of laughter that escaped his lips at that. She was right, after all. 

When she spoke again, there was relief in her voice. “Since there isn’t really a reason ‘why’ you want to leave…how about this: how about you stay until you _do_ know why you want to leave. Then you’ll know you’re making the right choice for the right reasons. You have to run _to_ something, not _away._ Sound like a plan?”

He blinked his eyes open and withdrew from her hand, which fell to her lap with an air of defeat. Rubbing at his cheeks, he dispersed the evidence of his lapse and took a deep, steadying breath. Heero turned to Hilde then and searched her eyes. Hopeful. She wanted him to stay too. After a moment, he nodded. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Cirque Ste-Croix [1], L4-V10223  
196 May 5**

It was hard to believe it had been five months already. Five months of peace. Five months of calm, of rest and relaxation.

And getting knives thrown at him on a near-daily basis.

But that was just part of the job. Catherine had welcomed his return with giddy abandon and relief…the rest of the crew with no small amount of trepidation. Considering his sudden departure, the Ringmaster had been leery of bringing him back into the fold. He eventually relented however. What changed his mind, Trowa didn’t know, but would put good money on Catherine having something to do with it…whether or not she used the threat of bodily harm was the real question.

There had been one catch to his return however. The manager wanted new material. He couldn’t play with the Big Cats all the time, and he couldn’t stand still while someone threw sharp objects at him. The crowds were good after the armistice, and it was the right time to test new acts.

Good for him, Trowa had no qualms learning new tricks and didn’t suffer from vertigo, so up the tightrope he went. 

He’d been performing solo for a few weeks now, but he could feel that buzz of boredom starting to thrum below his skin. It took several attempts, but he finally got Catherine to relent to joining his practice runs. She was learning pretty quickly, Trowa thought, despite her frustration of falling into the net more often than not for the time being. She’d get the hang of it, he was sure. She was nothing if not stubborn. 

Tonight had been special though – one of the new additions had brought out the silks and wowed the audience with her aerial work. He had made a mental note, watching her freefall, that one of these days he would need to ask her for a lesson. 

As he rounded the corner towards the animal paddock, he found a short brunette with his hand thrust inside the lions’ holding pen, the animal suffering the youth to run deft fingers through his mane. Swallowing down the reprimand that rose in his throat, he took a few steps closer and kept his eyes locked on the animal behind the bars. _Fearsome beast you are_ , he thought as he approached. “Can I help you?” Trowa asked, and the young man paused in his affectionate ministrations to turn toward him. 

Brilliant aquamarine eyes met his own and took his breath away…as they were wont to do. “Hi Trowa,” Quatre murmured, stepping away from the bars. The lion looked up at the loss and seemed a bit dejected, but soon lost interest and moved away. Recovering his initial surprise, Trowa opened his mouth to speak –

“Hey! Get away from the animals!”

Trowa turned to find one of the roustabouts approaching. Glancing back at Quatre, he stepped between them and waved the other man off. “It’s alright. He’s a friend of mine.”

The man hesitated, his eyes darting between the two of them as he drew closer. “A friend?”

“Yeah.”

The roustabout’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Well…tell your _friend_ he’s not supposed to be back here. And he shouldn’t be petting the damn lion.”

“I shouldn’t pet the lions either, and that never stopped me,” Trowa countered as he approached, but clapped the man’s shoulder and walked him a few paces away. “Don’t worry about it. No harm done. Good job today,” he added waving the other man off. He stood watching the man begrudgingly retreat into the darkness of the camp. 

Once they were alone once more, he exhaled sharply and spun on his heel, striding back to Quatre, who waited with his head tilted to the side, inquisitive. “I’m pretty sure that man now thinks I’m a prostitute,” Quatre observed as he approached, the two of them stepping in-stride as they walked across the circus grounds toward the living quarters.

“The fact that I’m taking you directly to my trailer doesn’t help matters.”

Quatre laughed beside him, an infectious sound if he ever heard one. “Fantastic – it helps augment the cover story, I think.”

Trowa’s fingers twitched to hold the other man’s hand, but he resisted, his dull finger nails biting into his palm. Instead, he asked, “What’s with the dye job?” His eyes narrowed at the darkened locks atop the shorter man’s head – though not much shorter, he realized suddenly. In the months they’d been apart, with little more than hurried vid calls and clandestine notes, he hadn’t thought about it.

“I don’t like it either,” Quatre admitted, running his fingers through his hair, tousling it in the colony’s manufactured breeze. “But you’re too close to home – too many people would recognize me if I left it blond.”

They avoided crowds of circus staff and performers still celebrating the show’s success, and walked between trailers in silence. Coming up upon his own, Trowa unlatched the door and stepped aside, letting Quatre enter first before sliding in behind him…sparing a quick glance over his shoulder to see whether there were any witnesses – there were not, small wonder indeed.

Quatre had already stripped out of his jacket and shoes while Trowa closed and locked the door. Trowa saw his eyes take in the modest lodging and was somewhat surprised to see it met with open approval. The younger man’s eyes settled on a throwing knife that sat on the countertop next to a battle-hardened EDA [2] and he smiled. 

“I was going to come visit you,” Trowa muttered in a moment of weakness, his eyes not quite able to meet the other man’s gaze, “but I wasn’t sure if you’d want that.”

“Of course I’d want that,” Quatre reassured him, reaching out to touch his cheek and bring his eyes up to look at him. “I miss you so much. Too much, in fact. That’s why I’m here and not pining away on the colony next door.”

Closing the distance between them, Trowa swept the other youth into an embrace and captured his lips in a blinding kiss. He felt Quatre hum in approval against his lips, the vibrations trespassing down his own throat. He felt the insistent press of fingers against the muscles in his shoulders, and the dull bite of trimmed nails. He felt the caress of the other’s clothes against his bare chest and heard the whisper it made, beckoning them both to get _on_ with it.

They parted, breathless and Quatre ran his fingers up through the short strands of auburn hair at the base of his neck. His eyes fluttered shut as the shorter man pulled him down so that their foreheads could touch. “Should we put up a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign?” 

Trowa pulled back to shoot him a look, which earned another hearty laugh from Quatre. Shaking his head, he couldn’t fight the grin that crept across his face as he took the other’s hand in his own and the two fled laughing to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Easter Egg: Gilles Ste-Croix is one of the founders of Cirque du Soleil.
> 
> [2] EDA = Electronic Data Analytic. Consider it like a PDA with data ports. Good for deciphering and reading encrypted messages.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mariemaia Faction HQ, L3-X18999  
196 June 7**

It had taken nearly three months since the encounter with Barton’s…recruiter before Wufei did something about it. Three months, two new countries, seven flashbacks, and fifty-one nightmares (he knew – he counted), to be exact.

It was another three weeks before he’d been thoroughly vetted enough to bring to the colony, and then two more before Dekim Barton himself saw fit to grace him with his presence. By this point, he had already picked several fights with soldiers who were little more than sheep in his opinion, smart mouthed some “superior” officers, and heard more political vitriol than he could take.

It was at this cusp of leaving that Dekim appeared at his makeshift dorm. “I’d like to speak with you. Walk with me,” was all he said before turning on his heel. Biting back a retort aimed at Barton’s assumption he’d follow, Wufei did exactly that. 

They walked the hidden, inner corridors of the newly-completed colony before rising to the uppermost levels of the Barton family’s compound. The lavish decor did not go unnoticed. “I know that…pageantry is not your forte, and I will forgive you if you do not support half of what I’ve been telling our new recruits.”

“Well that’s a relief,” Wufei huffed. “If you didn’t recruit me for your battalion, what did you need me for? It looks like you have plenty of men who would happily die for the cause. What’s one more?”

“You are special Wufei. I had my associate seek you out specifically.”

“Oh really? For what? Assassinations? Not interested—”

“I need you to protect someone,” Dekim interrupted him as they walked the halls.

“I’m no bodyguard,” Wufei growled, already not liking the assignment.

“Oh I’m very much aware of that,” the old man countered, coming to a stop in front of a pair of large double doors. “Consider this retribution of sorts.” Turning the handles, he swung them open into a large…bedroom. Wufei shot the man an odd look, but before he could ask a question, the man called out, “Mariemaia, you have a guest.”

Around the corner a small figure appeared. A shock of red hair above lavender eyes, she stepped into the antechamber and gave them both a curious look.

“Mariemaia, allow me to introduce one Zhang Wufei, pilot of the Gundams Shenlong and Altron. Wufei, I’d like you to meet Mariemaia, my granddaughter…and daughter of Treize Khushrenada.”

_Impossible!_ Wufei turned, reeling, his eyes wide. 

Dekim’s smile turned dark. “I realize that this comes as a shock. Trust me, it came as a surprise to me as well. But my daughter was not one to lie, and we do in fact have DNA tests to prove it. Our little girl is the rightful leader of the New World, and we will need your help to get her there.”

“That’s enough Dekim.” Wufei turned now to the little girl…who certainly didn’t sound like a child. “I’d like to talk to Wufei. Alone. Please.”

“Of course dear,” Dekim bowed slightly and moved toward the door.

Wufei threw an arm out to catch the man in his grip. He hissed, “What makes you think I won’t kill her here and now, after what I’ve seen, after all that you’ve told me?”

Dekim only smirked, and brushed his hand away, straightening the fabric of his sleeve. “Because you are an honorable man, Zhang Wufei,” and with that, closed the door behind him. 

There was a moment of silence shared between them then, his back to her. He could feel her eyes on him, and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. “He told me you killed my father,” she said then. Turning, he found that same level gaze looking back at him. He shuddered. “Did you?” she prompted.

Wufei stared back at those cold eyes and knew she was his. Ever-watchful, they were more calculating than any child’s eyes deserved to be. She was weighing his worth with her gaze. “Yes,” he told her. “I killed your father.”

She watched him for a long moment before she asked, “Then why help me? Why protect me?”

_You mean besides the fact that your grandfather is going to destroy you?_ “Because your father was a good leader. I hated him and the war he perpetuated, but he died fighting for his convictions. He believed men were greater than their petty conflicts. For that, I respected him.” After a beat, he concluded, “He was a far greater warrior than I could ever be.”

“You’re wrong,” she told him. “My father would never have let you win, if he was truly the man you say he was. If you defeated him in battle, it’s because you were stronger, better. Don’t even suggest otherwise, or I’ll have Dekim toss you out the airlock.”

Wufei stared at the seven year old standing across from him and felt his stomach plummet. But then she crossed the room and took his hand with her own. His palm swallowed her pale fingers. “I want you to fight for me, Wufei. My father must have been honored to fight you, and would have preferred you both to have been on the same side, I’m sure. Fight for me instead?”

And as those eyes bored into him, branded him, Wufei knew he would.

She smiled up at him and for once the entire meeting she looked like a child. “I’m glad,” she told him, “that we’ll be friends. I’ll need your help to rule the world after all, and it’s hard to find good friends. That’s what Dekim says.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” he admitted.

She laughed and released his hand, turning away. “You can leave now. Take care, Wufei, and I’ll see you very soon.”

Backing out of the room, Wufei felt dizzy as he closed the doors and leaned backward against them. Dekim was waiting for him and took him by the shoulder to steer him down the hall. Wufei’s thoughts raced while the old man talked of glory and battles yet to be fought. He escorted him through the complex, passing saluting uniformed soldiers in what seemed like a never-ending sea of maroon, and not for the first time Wufei wondered how the Preventers had missed such an extensive operation.

“She’ll need the protection,” Dekim was saying. “If even half of them come, we’ll need you.”

“Half of whom?” Wufei asked as he drew to a halt in the hallway, suspicion heavy in his voice as clarity began to return.

The older man paused several paces ahead of him, his hands still clasped loosely behind his back. They stood in silence until at last, Dekim turned his head to say over his shoulder, “I think you know exactly who.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Winner Residence, L4-V05001  
196 December 1**

Peace had been…challenging. Far more so than he would like to admit, being a pacifist and all. 

The homecoming had been equally difficult. Upon his return, he had gathered the far-flung Winner children at the residence – a feat in and of itself – and, flanked by the closest of his Maganac companions, informed them all of what exactly he had been doing for the last few years. He had not in fact been attending some distant boarding school for the colonies’ wealthy children (although his father had ensured that there were enough who would say he had been a classmate). He had also not in fact been disowned by their father, though he was sure Zayd Winner had considered it during the early years of his personal rebellion.

No. He’d been running rough-shod over the family’s stoic adherence to pacificism, non-alignment, and non-interference. Oh, and killing people. Lots of people. And if they told anyone else about it, he would be bringing them all down with him. The family name was already in shambles with their father’s attempt at martyrdom; this would likely destroy them.

So now that that was out of the way, he would be taking over as head of Winner Enterprises, as he was deigned to do by their father’s will and testament. They were welcome to continue serving on the board of course, and he welcomed their support and leadership; but there was to be no mistake of who was in fact at the helm. 

After the stunned silence, there was a tremendous cacophony as all 29 of them spoke at once. Some cursed him as an oath-breaker, a poor excuse for a son, a traitor, a _murderer_. Others mourned the death of a dynasty…disregarding the fact that they all still breathed. He had closed his eyes then, and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he sought out the silence. He found it in his sister Iria, who smiled quietly at him from the far end of the table; in Noreen, only a few years his senior, who jumped to her feet and applauded from her place along the wall; in Yasharah, who leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, and smirked with a sense of victory at the distressed women who sat opposite her. 

He spent the better part of the year learning the business and the family, from whom he had been so estranged, and sought to assuage concerns and bolster support and understanding. He made progress and built an uneasy truce amongst most of them, and did his part putting a good face on the company…though he avoided the press as thoroughly as a hermit could.

But it was Fatima, the eldest, who made him _see_.

“They fear you, you know,” she had said, taking a sip from her chilled tea, while they lounged in her compound on Earth. On the wind, he could hear her children playing in the distance.

Her frankness caught him aback. “But why?” he had asked her, unable to disguise the disappointment in his voice. “Why still? After almost a year?” 

She had smiled at him then, and shook her head. “Quatre,” she began, leaning forward to take his hands in hers, “there are those who are born to lead, and do, for better or worse. There are those who are born to follow, and do, for better or worse. And then there are those who were born to follow and _choose_ to lead. You were never meant to be a leader, little brother. You were meant to be the good son and carry on the family name and do right by the company. And you chose to tell all those expectations to take a flying fuck.

“You took the reins with reluctance and a good heart and became the _emir_ , the commander that no one believed you would become. But men can do great harm when trying to do good…and great good when in fact they are acting badly,” she had added with a smirk. “You have been acting badly since you disappeared, and look at all the good that has come. The world’s at peace. You are safe.”

“And father is dead.”

“Father is dead, this is true. But you would not be the man you are now if you hadn’t defied everything you were born to do. How many lives were saved because the war ended? How many children won’t be taken from their families and thrown into Alliance military academies as tribute? How many people will now be exposed to the other side and realize we’re not so different after all? How much have you grown? How much have you learned? Who have you met that you would have never known otherwise?”

An unbidden image of taunting green eyes had flashed in his mind’s eye then, and he had averted his gaze. She released his hands and tilted his face back up so their gazes met once more. “My advice to you, little brother,” she had finally whispered, her eyes laughing, “is to be bad. But do good. And _lead_.”

He had taken her advice. He began to do more publicity, he began to speak more often, he began to disagree with guidance…and he spoke to the others. Where there had been clandestine meetings and coded messages, there were now vid calls and emails and texts.

It was a welcome change, even though some were more responsive than others. It made the peace less unbearable to know he was not the only one who thought of it as such. It was good to talk to someone who actually spoke back, he had realized, thinking of the…item buried in Winner Enterprise’s R&D vaults, sitting…waiting. Waiting for that second shoe, for the toll of Hell’s bells and the beating of the war drums.

Maybe…maybe it was time.

Unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk, he pushed aside the hanging folders lined with legal files – most of which provided the validating documentation of his intricately constructed backstory – and pushed on the disguised pressure plate. The false bottom released, and he withdrew three encrypted data keys and a jail-broken EDA [1] which had seen better days. He could still feel grains of sand falling into his palms when he held it, and it brought a smile to his face.

Slipping the keys into their ports, he turned the device on and opened a new document. It would have to be short, he decided. Something that only they would understand in case it was intercepted, but something that still relayed the gravitas necessary and would not require any follow up beyond action. 

He began to write, his thumbs twitching over the small buttons, but hesitated. Was he ready to say goodbye? Really? It had been the one thing that was consistent in this life, the one thing that still made sense and brought together the volatile past with the mind-numbing present. 

He had to be, he decided finally. There was no other solution. Steeling his nerves, he finished his message and saved the document to the keys. Adding the necessary coding, he withdrew them and shut down the device. Stowing it away and locking the drawer, he pushed away from his desk and crossed the room to open his office’s door. 

“Zak, I realize this is very last minute, but I need you to run an errand for me,” he told his assistant, who had to be several years older than him. “Please ensure these are posted today – for next day delivery, if at all possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Reminder, EDA = Electronic Data Analytic. Consider it like a PDA with data ports. Good for deciphering and reading encrypted messages.


	7. Chapter 7

**Schbeiker Scrap and Salvage, L2-V10328  
196 December 2**

It was December already. Amazing. Wonderful. Inconceivable. December.

A year had gone by, and he was still here. _What’s more, Heero’s still here_ , he thought, glancing across the yard at the young man in question who was currently in the process of yanking apart an old Taurus propulsion system. Black grease smudged his face and arms like war paint, his attention solely dedicated to the task at hand. Duo chuckled and slid his welding goggles back into place before lighting the torch. 

After Heero’s near-disappearing act that spring, Duo noticed a change in his compatriot. He was...comfortable. An odd way to describe the other young man, true, but maybe peace just looked good on him. 

The nightmares had gotten better too. For both of them, ultimately, but for Duo especially. Being close after hours had helped, though he’d be damned if he ever got caught saying as much aloud. Nothing would detract from his street cred more than saying he needed a Heero-shaped nightlight to get any kind of decent sleep. What kind of loser needs his best friend sleeping spitting distance from him every night? 

It’d pass, he knew. It was part of the coping bit. That whole post-traumatic, blah blah blah, adjustment to civilian life, etcetera, so on, and so forth.

…probably. 

In the meantime, Hilde and he had been working to get the kid socialized. They’d even been able to get him out to a bar a couple times. Not for long, but long enough for Hilde to convince him to dance with her a few times. He wasn’t half-bad as it turns out. Where within the Evil Doctor J’s training repertoire that fell, Duo had no idea, but with God’s good graces, Heero had kept it all stowed away somewhere in his flustered little head.

“Duo, Heero! Mail!”

At Hilde’s call, Heero looked up from his work, concentration temporarily broken, and Duo cut the juice to the torch. Wrapping his legs around the metal scaffolding’s support beam on which he sat, he let gravity take him and swung upside down, his head level with the young woman’s as she passed, his braid dangled another meter or so down. He grinned, his eyes still hidden by the black welding goggles. “For me?”

“For you both,” she corrected, handing the card reader and key over to him. “From Quatre,” she added with a smile and a nod at Heero. “It’s encrypted, so I assume you’ll have to crack it to read whatever he sent—”

“Got it,” Duo interrupted. Grasping the device in one hand, he took the pipe he dangled from with the other and unwound his legs to right himself, dropping to the yard below. Heero stood, wiping the grime from his hands with a rag that hung from his back pocket, and walked over to join him. Together, they read the message.

\----------------------------------  
We’ve held on for a year.   
Perhaps it’s time to let go.   
I’ll be waiting. Same place as last year.  
\----------------------------------

After a moment, Duo looked up at his friend and asked, “Do you think he means it?” 

“It’s Quatre. Of course he means it,” Heero answered without hesitation.

Duo worried his lower lip between his teeth as he reread the message again…and again, dread building in his stomach. The inevitable loss. He knew it would come, but now? So soon? It was only December. Unbelievably, inconceivably December. Looking up at Heero, he murmured, “Are you gonna do it?”

Heero looked away as he pondered the question, and Duo recognized the war blazing in the other’s eyes. It mirrored the one in his gut. Could we? Should we? After a moment, Heero’s blue eyes met his own and he said, “Yes. It’s time.”


	8. Epilogue

**Low Earth Orbit  
196 December 24**

Sally watched the diagnostics panel with mounting dread. The readings confirmed what she already suspected, confirmed the troubling intel assessments that had been dispersed from headquarters. “Neo titanium?” she muttered to herself. “When did they get this…?”


End file.
